


My Starling Darling

by mellostopheles



Category: The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Arguably a better backstory than Hannibal Rising, F/F, Gender bending obviously, Parody, Self Insert Week 2016, black humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:19:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6812938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellostopheles/pseuds/mellostopheles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a satirical rewrite of sorts I made a while ago feat. a different version of Hannibal Lecter meeting with Clarice Starling. In case it isn't obvious, this is a black humour piece rather than horror. I honestly find it stupidly funny, I don't know what that says about me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Starling Darling

It was casual Friday at the FBI and Clarice Starling was listening to a mixtape on a cassette deck in the Quantico cafeteria. She was wearing a casual flannel shirt over a tank top that said “Agents do it in Secret” across the chest. As she sung along with _Material Girl_ by Madonna, she saw her boss and substitute father figure, Jack Crawford, approaching. She slammed her finger down on the off button and showed him that goofy Southern girl smile. Jack Crawford was stern and had no time for charm, which was really in her favour, as Clarice was an awkward kind of gal.

“Hi,” she said. Jack shook his head.

“Clarice,” he said. “I hope you’re finished eating, cause I’m about to turn your stomach. I have news.” Clarice put the kielbasa she was eating back down on her plate and wiped her mouth with a napkin to make sure she didn’t have any mustard on her full lips.

“What is it?” she asked. She knew it could be anything. The FBI dealt with, as she always put it, ‘some nasty, fucked up kind of shit’.

“There’s a new serial killer in town!” Jack Crawford sighed. “By town, I mean in Baltimore. There have been two victims so far.”

“And I thought the worst thing to happen to Baltimore was _Hairspray_ ,” Clarice said.

“This is much worse than a John Waters movie, Clarice,” Jack said. “Well, largely. Anyway, I hate to say this, but we need some help on this one. The FBI just isn’t special enough to solve this case.”

“But we’re special agents, aren’t we?” Clarice gasped. “Why, we can do anything!”

“Anything except understand the mind of a sick and twisted killer,” Jack corrected her. “No… We need help, and I don’t like where it’s got to come from.”

“The CIA?” Clarice asked, knowing that Jack Crawford hated the CIA since the annual FBI vs CIA softball game had gone in their favour last year. He had taken down the little league trophy he kept in his office and barely said a word about it since.

“Worse,” he said gravely and she shook her head in disbelief. “We need to be able to predict where this killer might strike next, and why they’re doing this. I need you to go to Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and interview someone for us. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Of course I can,” Clarice said. “Can you tell me more about this killer I’m trying to stop so I’ll know what questions to ask?”

“I have a lot on my plate right now, Clarice, and not just ‘cause it’s lunchtime,” Jack said, staring at his watch. “I’ll get you a print out for the plane ride.” He turned and walked off. Clarice Starling got to her feet, saluted, and wiped the mustard off her tank top. She was ready for action.

 

Clarice landed on the tarmac in Baltimore and went to collect her luggage filled with her stylishly cut grey pantsuits. She was on the clock to catch a killer, so she only spent twenty minutes in the airport gift shop looking at snow globes before heading out. Arriving outside the hospital, she was struck by how imposing a building it was. And that was just as a visitor, she couldn’t imagine being cooped up in the basement like a battery hen. It almost made you favour the death penalty, if only to give the place a spring cleaning once in a while. But Clarice Starling was staunchly in favour of life. That was, after all, why she didn’t care for serial killers.

As she went into the reception area, a twitchy and off-putting little man came up to her rubbing his hands. He was clearly in a position of power here, but his suit jacket said ‘80s car salesman’ and his cologne said ‘didn’t you listen to the suit jacket’. Clarice approached him warily.

“Good day, miss,” he said. “Are you the FBI agent I was promised?”

“Yes, I am,” Clarice said. “And you are…?”

“I’m Frederick Chilton and I’m the big noise around here,” he said. “If you want to sample our wares, it’d be a good idea to get on my good side.”

 

“You mean if I want to talk to your patients?” Clarice clarified.

“Yes, if you intend to probe the oddballs then you need my say-so.” He smiled, and even though it seemed unlikely, almost impossible, his smile itself seemed unpleasantly greasy. Like the residue on a particularly Chicago-style pizza napkin. “Although I can think of something that’s more deserving of probing, if you catch my drift, agent.”

“Ugh, you’re not serious!” Clarice said, crinkling up her adorable nose. “Maybe you’re the one who belongs behind bars. Your patients might be criminally insane killers, but they’ve got nothing on you!”

“Maybe so, but it’s still me that controls who gets to talk to my basement bunny boilers, so I’d be nice if I were you,” Chilton said and swanned off out of there. Clarice followed him, trying to stay professional and ignore the part of her FBI training that told her she could dissect his septum with the heel of her shoe. Frederick Chilton reminded her of the popular jock boys from her Lutheran high school. They too had been creepy and off-putting, and overly confident in their social power. But just like them she had a feeling that Chilton would one day run afoul of the wrong person, and in his case it might be more serious than getting fired from the McDonalds drive thru.  
“Are you going to let me see who I’ve come to see?” Clarice asked testily.

“Of course, agent. I don’t see why not,” Chilton laughed. “After all, this patient never talks to anyone! Let alone some grass-green profiler with justice on her mind!” He pushed the large red release switch to let Clarice enter the cell block where her source was being kept.

“Thanks,” she said. It was meant to sound sarcastic, but Clarice was full of that good old fashioned Southern hospitality and she just sounded thankful. Chilton waved her in and she went through the heavy glass door into the cell block.

There were many glass-walled cells lined up one after the other in the dank, brick basement. In them were some real creeps. Clarice, ever studious, recognised some of the faces from the hefty criminal justice textbooks she liked to read back in her university dorm, hours after her roommate begged her to turn off the reading light because they had a hangover. But the only hangover Clarice Starling had ever known was that dark feeling when a criminal escaped the FBI’s stern but fair clutches.

Finally, she came to the cell number she had been given. She turned to look through the glass wall and into the prison containing her best chance at stopping a killer. It wasn’t what she expected. On the walls were many sketches, pencil drawings of characters from pop culture that Clarice vaguely recognised. There was a pile of sketch paper on the small wooden desk, and a collection of safety pencils. And last but not least, sitting on the cot, staring back at her, was the person she’d come here to see.

“Hello,” they said. Clarice had been expecting something different. For one, she’d been pretty sure she’d be meeting a man. A middle-aged man at that. It seems she had got the wrong end of the stick, because the person sitting in the cell was a young woman around her own age. They had soft blonde hair that looked far too shiny for someone who had to be washing it in the sink with an inferior conditioner.

“H-hello,” Clarice stammered. “You’re… Hannibal Lecter?”

“Oh, no,” the prisoner said with a quick shake of her head. “That’s a common mistake. It’s Hannah-Bell Lecter. I see you’ve only heard it said out loud.”

“That’s right, I have. I was expecting something different.”

“So was I,” Hannah-Bell said. “When they told me an FBI agent was coming prowling around with their nose to the ground, I expected one of those tapioca-skinned lizards who inexplicably calls me ‘darling’ whilst brandishing a can of mace in case I manage to slip my restraints.”

“Well don’t you worry, ma’am,” Clarice said sternly. “You’ll never have to worry about me calling you ‘darling’.”

“Perhaps you speak too soon,” Hannah-Bell said and laughed in an unusual way that involved a lot of hissing that Clarice found charmingly refreshing.

“So… did they tell you why I’ve come here today?” Clarice asked, business-like as ever. Hannah-Bell sighed.

“Yes,” she replied. “Some dim bulb is giving a new meaning to ‘good morning Baltimore’ and you want my help to figure out who it might be.”

“Exactly…” Clarice said sternly. “Two people are dead. I have to find who is doing this and put them away before we give the coroners anymore work.”

“Put them away,” Hannah-Bell laughed. “Tell me, do you law enforcement types ever think about what happens to the people you ‘put away’?”

“Well no, I suppose not,” Clarice said. “I like to imagine that prison is like falling down a staircase over and over again. That’s justice.”

“Indeed,” Hannah-Bell said seriously. “And my own staircase is without end. Why, the hopelessness of my situation is broken up only by the occasional moment of creative reflection. My art is all I have.”

“That’s beautiful,” Clarice said, stroking her smooth, coffee-coloured hair behind her ear. She hadn’t expected this job to be so disarming. She glanced up again at the drawings plastering the walls.

“Tell me, agent, what am I to call you?” Hannah-Bell asked suddenly.

“You can call me Special Agent Clarice Starling,” Special Agent Clarice Starling informed her.

“Well, Clarice,” Hannah-Bell continued, “You want something from me. How about we plan… a trade?”

“Of course, I understand.” Clarice had been warned this might happen. She was not authorised to grant Hannah-Bell any special treatment or favours, but she had been told she could lie if it would get the killer on her side.

“I will tell you something about your murderer, if you will tell me something in return…”

“Yes… all right.” Clarice wondered what it would be. A personal story from her childhood to reset the balance of power?

“Tell me…” Hannah-Bell breathed. “Have they figured out the mystery in _Twin Peaks_ yet?” Clarice was caught off guard. She stared at the other woman for a moment with her mouth open slightly.

“Excuse me?”

“Obviously I’m not allowed to watch TV in this hole,” Hannah-Bell said. “But it’s killing me. Who killed Laura Palmer? It was Donna, right? I always thought she was covering for something.”

“Er, no,” Clarice said slowly. “It was her father.”

“Aghh!” Hannah-Bell shouted, hopping to her feet. “I would never have expected that! Now that’s good television for you!” She turned back towards the glass wall separating her from her profiler and smiled. “Well, thank you. And I did promise to oblige you and your questions, so go ahead.”

“All right…” Clarice said, shaking off a feeling that she’d made a mistake. “Do you have any suggestions that will help us find this killer?”

“Of course I do,” Hannah-Bell said, looking almost wounded. “I am a professional psychologist, after all. Well, I was. They revoked my right to practice. Not that I’d have many chances these days.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Anyway, I’d suggest you start looking into men in their late twenties or early thirties with a history of breaking and entering. That’s right, isn’t it, the two victims were killed in their homes? That kind of thing takes practice.” Hannah-Bell smiled.

“Thank you, ma’am, that’s very useful,” Clarice said writing it down in both her FBI notebook and her personal notepad. “Can you give us anything more specific?”

“I can, if you’ll answer another question for me,” Hannah-Bell said playfully. Clarice understood how this was going to work. She only hoped she was up to date enough with current TV shows to provide another answer. She’d really fallen out of what was happening in _Dallas_.

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Do you prefer Italian or Chinese food?” Hannah-Bell asked. “I have a lot of recipes I’d _love_ to share with a new audience. It’s been so long since someone let me cook for them.”

“Hannah-Bell, Miss Lecter,” Clarice said sharply, raising a hand to stop the conversation. “There’s one thing I need to clarify here.”

“Please, do.” Hannah-Bell patiently smiled back at her FBI agent guest.

“You’re here, in this prison… for the criminally insane,” Clarice began.

“I am.”

“Because of your… history,” Clarice said, dancing around the subject like it was her senior prom.

“My history, yes,” Hannah-Bell confirmed. “My criminal history.”

“Your criminal history,” Clarice repeated, “Of eating people. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Hannah-Bell sighed. “You’re not wrong. I do have a bad habit of eating people, but it’s so tiring when that’s the only part of the story people hear! Why, imagine if all people knew about you was that you scored a 1900 in your SAT. Would you want everyone you met to assume you were nothing more than a swot for the rest of your life?”

“But I am a – no, I suppose, that would be upsetting,” Clarice admitted. “Well then, why don’t you tell me the whole story?”

“That would be my pleasure, Clarice,” Hannah-Bell sighed dreamily. “You see, I had a fairly difficult childhood. Both of my parents were killed in Vietnam when I was very young. They weren’t fighting over there, it was just a poorly-timed vacation. As everyone knows, a hard childhood is a good excuse for violent behaviour in adulthood, but I didn’t plan for things to go like that.”

“Then what happened?” Clarice asked with a gentle feminine gasp of intrigue.

“I was in my mid-teens,” Hannah-Bell went on. “A boy in my class asked me to go and see a musical with him. As an orphan, my entertainment options were fairly limited, so I agreed to go. It turns out he had purchased two tickets for us to see _Sweeney Todd_.”

“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Clarice sighed darkly. But she knew where it was inevitably going to go.

“We went to see the musical together,” Hannah-Bell said with a sense of foreboding befitting her backstory. “But when I asked if he would buy me a bucket of popcorn to eat while we enjoyed the show, he refused. He said that the noise of chewing annoyed him and he would not sit there and listen to it as he had paid for the tickets. I tried to be understanding about it… but as an orphan I was used to a diet of gruel, and I had been looking forward to a change.”

“Of course you had, I can understand that,” Clarice said. She didn’t want to admit this to a serial killer, but she too had grown up in an orphanage. It was something they shared.

“Well,” Hannah-Bell sighed. “After the show, we were trying to make our way back to the parking lot so he could drive me home in his 1982 Renault, but fate intervened. As we got into the elevator there was a terrible noise. I banged on the doors, but we were trapped. Can you imagine, Clarice? Trapped in a parking lot elevator with a boy stuck firmly in the belief that the New Romantics were the be-all-and-end-all of fashion.”

“I can’t…” Clarice shuddered, eager to hear more.

“There was no emergency call button,” Hannah-Bell said, shaking her head. “So we were going to stay there until someone noticed we were missing. And as I was just one of many unappreciated orphans, and he was a boy whose parents let him go to a matinee showing of _Sweeney Todd_ on a school day, we were doomed to be there a while. As the hours passed, I realised something. I had not eaten since that morning, and eventually it was going to become a problem. As he droned on endlessly about Adam Ant, I wondered if I would die there. At any moment the elevator cable could snap and send us plunging to our deaths. Or the oxygen in our metal cage would be depleted. And I thought to myself… if I was going to die, it would not be slowly fading from life in the arms of some high school yearbook editor.”

“What did you do?” Clarice asked. Her interest was as peaked as the town in Hannah-Bell’s favourite TV show.

“I chose to live!” Hannah-Bell declared proudly. “I’ll admit, I may have acted rashly. But it was uniquely satisfying to hear him scream his apology for skimping on snacks during the show as I dug a penknife into his throat. I’ve never been particularly fond of the raw food style of cuisine, but when you’re in a survival situation, you’d be surprised what can taste good. When an elevator technician freed me the next day, I told him my friend had carved himself up before inserting the knife into his throat. After all, it was a violent musical, and teenagers are very impressionable.”

“That’s true,” Clarice admitted. “But that was essentially self-defence!” Especially if he wouldn’t stop talking about Adam Ant, she thought. “So why are you in here?”

“Ah. Well, I suppose I’m here today because I didn’t leave the table after my first serving. I tried to dismiss the incident as one of those embarrassing things children do, like passing love notes in class or listening to Rick Astley, but it wasn’t the case. After I became a doctorate of psychology early, because of my incredible test scores,”

“Of course,” Clarice said, nodding.

“I thought it was behind me. But one day, I met with a new patient. He confessed that he was a travel agent, and I was reminded of my parents’ untimely deaths. To think that one of the vile people responsible for landing me in an orphanage was in front of me now. I told him I would recommend him to a different doctor, then later that week followed him to his house, invited myself in, and served him up with a nice bottle of wine.”

“What kind of wine?” Clarice asked.

“The kind of wine isn’t important,” Hannah-Bell said, perturbed. “Why would it matter? What, you want a pairing recommendation...? That’s not really the point.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Clarice admitted.

“Yes, anyway, I had a couple more accidents after that. I got a taste for it, I admit. But we’ve all cheated on our diets from time to time, haven’t we? And I had very good reasons for all of them. For example, one of them was a colleague who swore by Freud. You can’t tell me someone like that is an innocent victim.”

“No,” Clarice agreed. “It does sound very understandable when you put it like this…”

“Exactly,” Hannah-Bell said smiling cheerfully. “And if I hadn’t eaten that damn mailman I’d probably still be breathing fresh oxygen. How was I supposed to know they’d trace his route? The man only knocked twice before he tossed my package on the doorstep and it was fragile! He deserved what he got!”

“I see,” Clarice said. She was learning a lot. Thankfully she had her two notepads to hand to make notes.

“But I’ve taken up so much of your precious time,” Hannah-Bell said apologetically. “And I haven’t helped you catch your killer! I’m so sorry for getting distracted.”

“To a profiler like me, this is all important,” Clarice said, smiling shyly. She couldn’t believe how much insight she’d been granted into the criminal mind. Catching her strangler was going to be a snap!

“Still,” Hannah-Bell said. “I should do what I can, as you’ve been so good to listen to me go on. As I was doing the crossword in last week’s newspaper, trying to figure out which _General Hospital_ character the clue was referring to, I dropped the paper, and when I picked it up found it had opened to a small article mentioning the first of your murders. From reading the description of the crime, I figured out that the criminal was probably the son of one of my old nurses. I saw him once unofficially as a favour to her, and he mentioned that he had always wanted to become a degenerate strangler. He lives in the same area as the crimes were committed, so I should imagine he’s the killer you seek.”

“Wow!” Clarice gasped. “I… thank you! If it’s him, you’ve saved an unknowable amount of lives!”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Hannah-Bell said. Then she clutched her forehead and doubled over in pained anguish. “But despite my efforts… I will never again leave this place!”

“Oh no…” Clarice said.

“Yes…” Hannah-Bell cried, turning to face her and placing her palm up against the glass between them. “You can leave here today knowing that I have saved the lives of sweet, apple-cheeked victims across Baltimore, but I will spend tonight lying sleeplessly in my lonely cot, dreaming of the stars and listening to my cell neighbour beating off. I do so miss culture. And air.”

“Of course… of course you do,” Clarice said, frowning sadly. She couldn’t believe how much things had changed for her in such a short period of time. When Special Agent Clarice Starling had entered this prison today, she had been certain that the world was black and white. There were two kinds of people, the good and the bad. She was an agent of the FBI, the picture of good, and this woman before her was a cannibalistic serial killer living in the basement of a prison for the criminally insane. Probably what most people would label pretty bad. But now, for the first time in her life, Clarice Starling was seeing the grey.

“Maybe you could do me a personal favour and visit me again,” Hannah-Bell said. “It would be good to share a conversation with a competent adult. All I really have is that little weasel Chilton sniffing around, and his idea of conversation is hollering and banging on the glass like he’s a bratty child at an aquarium.”

“I’ll come… if you’ll have me,” Clarice said, batting her naturally flawless eyelashes. “Hannah-Bell… you’ve really changed my perspective today. From now on, when someone tells me that I’m about to meet a mentally unstable cannibal, I’m going to reserve judgement.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Hannah-Bell sighed happily. She stood close to the glass and looked shyly back at Clarice. “Well… you’ve got what you came for. Your case is solved, and I’m sure the killer will be feeling the boot of justice soon. Even if it is such a stylishly chosen calf boot.”

“Thank you!” Clarice said. “Er, for your help. I promise I’ll come and see you again.”

“Do you promise…?” Hannah-Bell asked. “You won’t let those UFO-chasers at the FBI change your mind about me?”

“No, I won’t,” Clarice said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had such an intelligent, genuine conversation with someone. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been this happy since my father died.”

“Neither have I,” Hannah-Bell agreed. “So from one misunderstood orphan to another, I hope we meet again soon.” She placed a hand close to the glass as if to shake hands. Clarice looked down at the outstretched hand and smiled at the idea. She reached out her hand to mime a handshake, but was shocked when instead Hannah-Bell drew her into a kiss, to the best of her ability, with the means at her disposal. When Hannah-Bell pulled her lips back from the glass, Clarice found her cheeks turning pink, and looked away from the other woman to the stained asylum floor.

“I’m sorry… if that was too forward,” Hannah-Bell said softly.

“It’s just…” Clarice sighed, “I didn’t think you were going to… kiss me.”

“Technically…” Hannah-Bell sighed romantically, “I kissed the glass. I only wish I could have kissed those succulent, delicious lips of yours.”

“You’re flattering me!” Clarice said. “I… I don’t know how to feel.” Clarice Starling did know though. She had spent her whole life feeling like the first pancake. Imperfect, ready to be discarded. Even her successes at the FBI meant little to anyone else. But today, she was the fluffiest, Betty Crocker batter pancake there was.

“Just tell me you feel it too, Special Agent!” Hannah-Bell cried. “This connection is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I’ve never been this close to another human being, and I’ve had more than a few inside of me.”

“Oh you don’t need to tell me about th– You mean that you’ve eaten. Well…” Clarice faltered. If she went along with this, it was definitely going to put a damper on her mentor / student relationship with Jack Crawford. But maybe the occasional approval of Jack Crawford wasn’t everything in life.

“You know you want to give in to this feeling, Clarice. This is all either of us has been dreaming of, all our miserable, isolationist lives!” Hannah-Bell balled her fists against the wall of glass between them desperately.

“When I was younger,” Clarice began, “I spent a terrible night on my uncle’s farm, surrounded by the screaming of the butchered lambs. And I knew that night that I would dedicate my life to helping desperate people, people who society had let down. Victims of this cruel world of ours. And you, Hannah-Bell… you’re the only one who ever wanted to help me in return.”

“Oh, Clarice!” Hannah-Bell gasped. “We’re made for each other!”

“We are, Hannah-Bell!” Clarice cried out. “I won’t rest until we’re together!”

But as she said those fateful words, there came the sound of a door slamming, echoing around the high brick walls. Clarice and Hannah-Bell both turned as the sound of footsteps rushing towards them sounded through the corridor. Soon, the slimy figure of Frederick Chilton was between them, banging on the glass and pushing Clarice away.

“What is going on here? You two will do no such thing!” he hissed, sounding like one of the leaking pipes in his underfunded hospital. “Miss Starling, am I to believe that you’ve been taken in by this patient? You understand you’re dealing with a manipulative psychopath, don’t you?”

“How dare you call the woman I love a psychopath!” Clarice snapped, shoving him away from her.

“I love you too, my Starling darling!” Hannah-Bell cried out. “I won’t let this Florida State graduate spoil our blossoming romance!”

“I had a 3.2 GPA!” Chilton snarled at Hannah-Bell, tapping on the glass like he was picking out a doughnut at a diner. “You may think you’ve won, _Doctor Lecter_ , but you’re still a prisoner here as long as I’m in charge! And you will never see Agent Starling again!”

“No, Hannah-Bell!” Clarice cried out as Chilton grabbed her arm and dragged her away. Hannah-Bell pressed one hand against the glass and the other against her heart. When Clarice was out of sight, she shoved her head into her hands in despair.

 

The next evening, Hannah-Bell sat alone in her cell at her desk, sketching. She held her finished work aloft and sighed. It was a good likeness of Clarice Starling, but it was no comparison for the real thing. She gently pressed the paper to her lips before blue-tacking it to the wall. Just then, there was the sound of someone approaching, and she turned crossly to see who was interrupting. She hoped it wasn’t another would-be author looking for inspiration for their true crime book. She was bored of idly imagining how to grill authors. Variety is the spice of life.

It was not an author, but rather the king of the lookee-loos himself, Frederick Chilton. Clearly misunderstanding how best to preserve his patients’ already fragile mental health, he was back to shove his greasy face in Hannah-Bell’s business.

“Haven’t you done enough to me?” Hannah-Bell asked sharply. Chilton stood with his head down, his tacky suit hanging loosely on his shoulders. But then he looked up and Hannah-Bell gasped in surprise.

“Well gee,” Clarice Starling said grinning crookedly at her, “I don’t think I’ve done nearly enough to you.”

“It’s you!” Hannah-Bell breathed. “But how?”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you again,” Clarice said. “So I waited until public hours were nearly over today, and came back here. I told Chilton I left a hair scrunchie down in the cells and as he turned to lead me there, I hit him over the head with a phone book. I stole his jacket and his key card and… I came to see you.”

“Clarice… I’ve never been so happy. Not even when I found the perfect sauce to baste my former hairdresser in.” Hannah-Bell smiled at Clarice and a tear rolled down her cheek. Clarice smiled back and pressed the key card into the slot by the door. As the glass door peeled back with a metallic cracking, she rushed into the cell… and into Hannah-Bell’s waiting arms. As the two held each other, their eyes found each other. Hannah-Bell stroked Clarice’s bouncy mahogany hair and then, for the first time for real, they were able to kiss.

“Oh, Hannah-Bell,” Clarice sighed happily as their lips parted. “I never knew that soulmates were real… and that mine would be a criminally insane cannibal… with a heart of gold.” Hannah-Bell brushed the tears from her eyes.

“And I never thought I could love one of the FBI piglets that trapped me in this living hell without an end in sight. Who would have thought that when I was chewing out and later literally chewing my failure of a defence attorney, I was really embarking on the stage of my life where I’d find the woman of my dreams?”

“Sssh, don’t talk,” Clarice whispered. She kissed her new cannibal girlfriend again and this time, when Hannah-Bell felt another human’s tongue in her mouth, she knew that the story wasn’t going to be recounted in a court of law as a grieving widow screamed at her and hurled handfuls of gravel until she was escorted out of the room.

“I just have one question, Clarice…” Hannah-Bell asked. “What did you do with Chilton? Isn’t he going to call the police?”

“Let me show you,” Clarice said playfully, taking Hannah-Bell’s hand. She led her out of the cell and they rushed along the corridor, past various other bemused patients, out of the basement.

Hannah-Bell was about to ask where they were going, when Clarice stopped in front of a broom closet. With a secretive smile, she pulled open the door to reveal Chilton crushed into the bottom of the closet. His hands were tied and a cleaning cloth was shoved in his mouth. When he saw them, he looked up and tried to shout some plea for freedom.

“I put him in here so he can’t go running to the cops,” Clarice explained.

“That was smart,” Hannah-Bell laughed. “It’ll give us a good head start when we get out of here.”

“Actually…” Clarice said shyly, looking down at the struggling figure on the floor. “I was hoping for our first date, you could… cook for me.” Hannah-Bell smiled darkly and looked down at Chilton too.

“Of course, my dear Clarice,” she said. “But I promise you, dinner isn’t going to be the only thing I eat tonight!”

♥

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so, my family have been calling me Hannibal for years (it sounds like my name and they think they're funny), and basically all of my friends joke about me being a cannibal. But the joke is on them, because Clarice Starling is perfect and I would be in lesbians with her at a moment's notice. Also I guess the joke is on me because my parents gave me a name that sounds a lot like Hannibal Lecter and then watched me grow up to develop psychotic mental health issues. Life is an adventure!  
> I hope you enjoyed this... stupid satire!


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